


Spooked

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Nightmares, but not a big dramatic breakdown fic, just a quiet little moment between the boys, post 10x07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:33:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22981030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: In which Steve has a nightmare, and manages to ask for help. Set post 10x07, maybe a few months after.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 115





	Spooked

Consciousness swirls upward through his body, somehow reaching his brain last. He breathes in deeply, tries to place what woke him.

“Hey, Danny?”

Not Gracie. Not Charlie; it’s a grown man’s voice.

Steve.

Danny peels his eyes open, sees his partner silhouetted on the opposite end of the living room. “’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Um.”

“C’mere,” Danny grunts, relieved when Steve obeys without protest. He settles on the edge of the couch, giving Danny enough wiggle room to pull himself to a sitting position. “You sick?”

“No.”

Danny fumbles to touch his neck anyway, finding no trace of fever; what he does find, a bit more alarmingly, is that Steve’s shaking.

Steve laughs, like he knows he’s been caught.

“Listen, man, I know you’re— you’re staying here ‘cause of the renos at your place now, but— do you have a minute, for it to be that other thing again?”

Does he have a minute? It’s the dead of night.

He has all the time in the world.

“Talk to me, babe.”

“So. I’m, uh. I’m okay. But I’m having some anxiety right now, and I can’t really muscle past it.”

As he’s been speaking, Danny has swung his legs over the side of the couch so that they’re sitting side-by-side. Now he grabs his blanket, tucks it around Steve’s shoulders.

“‘s good you can put a name on it. You wanna tell me ‘bout it?”

“I feel like I just ran ten miles,” Steve huffs. “An’ I’m waitin’ for my body to settle, but it’s not. My muscles are tensed up. And my stomach’s upset. And I just— I can’t catch my breath.”

Danny finds it curious at first—and then maybe heartbreaking—that this is how Steve needed to answer that question. That his symptoms, not their cause, seem like the problem to be fixed.

“I’ve been there, babe,” Danny promises. “I think we all have.”

Steve nods, tightly.

“Lean forward a little, okay? Head in your hands, nice deep breaths. I’m gonna get you some water, and then I’ll come sit with you.”

“‘kay,” Steve murmurs, doing as he’s told.

When Danny gets back with the water he finds Steve a little less rigid than before; he’s tucked in on himself, but more like he’s hugging himself than bracing for impact. The blanket’s fallen to the ground. Danny drapes his arm around Steve’s shoulders instead, then with his other hand, nudges Steve with the glass.

He uncurls, drains the water in one go. Then he gives the glass back and curls up again. Danny sets it aside, and squeezes Steve’s upper arm.

“Breathing feel any better?”

“Um. No,” Steve admits, voice muffled by his own chest. “I mean, obviously I know I’m breathing fine. But it doesn’t feel that way.”

“Yeah. That’s no fun.”

“No.”

“So, listen. If this came outta nowhere, that’s okay. That’s totally understandable. But, do you know? If something happened, t’start this off?”

Steve sighs. It’s sharp and sudden and miserable, and Danny has to fight the urge to just swoop the guy into a bear hug and pretend he can protect him from the world at large.

“Weird dream,” Steve replies, quietly. “Bad dream.”

“Okay.”

“Not like I haven’t been here a hundred times before. But—I dunno, man, you were downstairs, and I just—”

“Stop,” Danny orders. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

That gets him a soft, breathy laugh. “’kay.”

“You wanna tell me about the dream?” Time passes with no reply; Danny jostles Steve gently. “Your mom?”

“Mm.”

Steve sits back a little, enough that Danny can see his face now; and he’s struck by how similar a nightmare looks on a grown man, compared to a seven-year-old. Steve looks tired, and not actively scared but— _spooked_.

“We were in the car,” he murmurs. “Doris driving, me in the back. I dunno if I was a kid. I’m not sure.”

“Okay.”

“We’re on the highway or something, I dunno. And she—collapses. Just, outta nowhere, she just falls against the wheel. And I’m—I’m screaming, y’know, and I’m trying to get into the front seat so I can steer us to the shoulder. I’m trying to wake her up, I’m trying to—”

He stops, and rubs unsteadily at his chest.

“That’d shake me up too,” Danny says, at last.

“And that’s it.” Steve’s voice is hoarse now, as though all that screaming were real. “We never crash; we never make it to the shoulder. It’s just that moment of me watching her body just— give out. And me trying to get to the wheel. It’s like that moment alone lasts an hour. _Anyway_.” He sniffs, and shakes himself. “I woke up, and I felt like hell, so I woke you up too. And now it’s like, two in the morning, and we’re both awake.”

Danny scoffs. “Why did that sound like an apology?”

“I guess it was—”

“Why is it that you only ever apologize when you _do not need to_?”

Steve sniffles again, then laughs. And though Danny’s been more or less giving him a one-armed hug this entire time, now he tightens his hold and makes it official.

“How you doin’?” he asks, after a minute or two of this.

“Um. Lousy?” Steve smiles. “Better but still lousy.”

“You want some more water? Or something for your stomach?”

“Nah. I just wanna sit for a minute. That okay?”

“Obviously,” Danny grunts. Steve smiles again; then he folds in on himself once more, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He’s slipped out of Danny’s embrace. So instead Danny lays a hand on his back and just sort of leaves it there, not actively soothing, just anchoring.

And it takes a while. It takes however long it takes, but eventually Danny’s aware that Steve is dozing.

He eases himself to his feet, and gently coaxes Steve to lay back. Sluggish, more asleep than awake, Steve complies with Danny’s wordless directions; he pulls his long legs up onto the couch and drops his head onto Danny’s pillow. Danny fetches the blanket, spreads it over Steve’s body.

Without opening his eyes, Steve turns; gets himself so he’s facing the back of the couch, crushing against it. Blankets are tugged higher, pillow used less as a resting place, more as a barricade.

He doesn’t usually sleep so self-protectively, Danny notes, with a quiet sigh. Another ageless consequence of nightmares. Steve’s been through a _lot_ of shit, and seen even more; but on the average night he still sleeps on his back, sprawled, comfortable, unafraid.

Tonight, Danny gets the sense he’d sleep in the cracks between the cushions, if he’d fit.

He wouldn’t fit. He barely fits on the length of the couch, let alone in its crevices; but somehow he still looks small, curled up in the spare light, stealing back a borrowed blanket.

Danny puts himself to bed in the nearby armchair. And closes his eyes, drifting into a familiar kind of doze: the kind he can rouse from at any time. The kind where you remain alert, for someone else’s nightmare.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I can't say I've had writer's block, exactly; more than my minuscule attention span has been getting the better of me. But I have lots of stories in the works, so hopefully I'll be posting again soon :)


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